Uh oh Valentine's Day is looming. I have the feeling of dread much like I do on New Year's Eve. Are there two more pressure packed days in the year than February 14th and December 31st? I'm supposed to be happy and also have a date. Crap. With only 48 hours to go my anxiety builds. I think this feeling of dread started in grammar school. I'd have a 500 pack of tiny little valentines and spend hours addressing them to my friends . We'd hang highly decorated bags on our desks and watched with baited breath as the teacher distributed the precious envelopes. "Oh no so far I only have three and Barbara has ten!" I needed more cards in my bag or I'd die a thousand deaths. Isn't this too much pressure for a girl of eight? It got worse. What if Jimmy didn't send me one card and I sent him nine? I loved him and what if he didn't love me? I'd have to quit 3rd grade. I'd be humiliated. I don't think I knew what that word meant but you get the idea. No wonder I'm still a wreck.
There is one thing I like about Valentine's Day, the candy . I used to love getting the tasteless but colorful tiny hearts with sayings on them like "you're nice", and "you're so cute." Now I'm afraid I'm not nice, or cute and afraid one of the little hearts could break my teeth. I opt for chocolates with soft centers - ixnay to caramel, nuts and toffee. I know my Mom will send me a big frilly expensive card that barely fits in the mail box so by the time I pull it out it's practically in shreds and I spend 15 minutes piecing it back together. Regardless, I'm relieved I now only expect one card and not dozens.
With the pressure of the 14th rising and my happiness quotient dropping I decide to spend Valentine's day under cover and ruminate about the humiliation of New Year's Eve.
BTW I finished 3rd grade.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
"Mirror mirror on the wall , that can't be me"
By mistake I glanced in the hall mirror on my way downstairs. I think I briefly lost consciousness before letting out a small shriek. I surprised me. Whoa, who was that? I backed up and took a closer look. I needed emergency lipstick, eye liner, and rouge or it actually wasn't me but my mother. I quickly decided to try another mirror and ran to the bathroom . Cannily and to save myself from personal ruin at 10:15 a.m. I only turned on one of the three light switches. So much better, although I was squinting. Squinting definitely improved my skin tone and I decided not to call my therapist. Truthfully, it is a shock to "catch" myself in the mirror these days. Where did the prom girl version disappear?
I was whining to my girlfriend Jane about my mirror experience. "Oh honey, just do what I do, look at one very small part of your face at a time." I still wasn't comforted. "Do men our age feel this way? Do they ever think they look like crap?" "Lord no, they have "magic" mirrors. No matter how old, gray, bald, and wrinkled they don't see it." "I want a magic mirror too," I sobbed. "Sorry sweetie we don't get to have them. I gotta run, but like I said, one tiny part at a time." She was right, men have "magic" mirrors. I met a short fat balding 65 year old in an over sized Nike t-shirt and jeans that skimmed the top of his ankles who spent an evening telling me he only liked to date women in their fifties. Has he looked in the mirror lately? Or the guy next to me at the bar at Sullivan's with a smile on his face and a comb over. He definitely has a "magic" mirror and should never go out on a windy day or swim. I can't forget 64 yr. old Alan, a never been married retired lawyer with a hair piece dyed "burnt umber",( my least favorite color in the Crayola box), who proceeded to declare he always has sex with a woman by the third date or "good-bye." He must never look in the mirror, and should definitely get a new colorist as well as therapist.
I decided I urgently needed a "magic" mirror too and searched Google for a dealer in my area. Unfortunately, the closest I got was a magician who could pull a rabbit out of a hat but not the prom girl out of me.
I was whining to my girlfriend Jane about my mirror experience. "Oh honey, just do what I do, look at one very small part of your face at a time." I still wasn't comforted. "Do men our age feel this way? Do they ever think they look like crap?" "Lord no, they have "magic" mirrors. No matter how old, gray, bald, and wrinkled they don't see it." "I want a magic mirror too," I sobbed. "Sorry sweetie we don't get to have them. I gotta run, but like I said, one tiny part at a time." She was right, men have "magic" mirrors. I met a short fat balding 65 year old in an over sized Nike t-shirt and jeans that skimmed the top of his ankles who spent an evening telling me he only liked to date women in their fifties. Has he looked in the mirror lately? Or the guy next to me at the bar at Sullivan's with a smile on his face and a comb over. He definitely has a "magic" mirror and should never go out on a windy day or swim. I can't forget 64 yr. old Alan, a never been married retired lawyer with a hair piece dyed "burnt umber",( my least favorite color in the Crayola box), who proceeded to declare he always has sex with a woman by the third date or "good-bye." He must never look in the mirror, and should definitely get a new colorist as well as therapist.
I decided I urgently needed a "magic" mirror too and searched Google for a dealer in my area. Unfortunately, the closest I got was a magician who could pull a rabbit out of a hat but not the prom girl out of me.
Monday, February 1, 2010
I Climbed Mt Everest in my Kate Spade high heels
I had a fantasy about climbing Mt. Everest. I hate the cold, detest the sight of snow , and have a fear of heights but I could still dream.
"Chirp, chiiiiirrrrp, CHIRRRRRPP !" Holy crap, what was going on? I bolted up in bed and wildly looked around the room for a bird that must be loose. I checked the clock, it was 3:02 a.m. My first instinct was to burst into tears and my second was the same thing but that wouldn't stop the incessant chirping. Did I need a net or a gun? Having neither I summoned my trusty yellow lab to go hunting with me, after all he's a bird dog and we had work to do. I wondered if boxer shorts and a t-shirt were proper attire. Down the stairs we traipsed trying to find the source of the shrill hideous noise. I'm cursing, the dog's half asleep and not on the scent. "Elliot, where's the bird, get him boy, go hunt."
He laid down and fell asleep in the living room while I stood there trying to track the chirp. It was directly over my head , but it wasn't flying, it was a round white object - the smoke detector. Crap. The battery must have been low, but I was much lower, approx. 10 feet. I stared up at it with venom in my eyes. I had to stop it or be driven stark raving mad. Chirp, chirp, chirp! "Shut up", I screamed for no reason other than it made me feel proactive. There was no ladder so I had to make do with a chair. I scaled the chair in my bare feet and reached up.... I was 2'8" away from peace and quiet. Now what? I needed more elevation fast. A fat phone book seemed like a solution. I set the book on the chair and up I went. Damn, I wasn't even close. Two phone books had to do the trick. Nope, I still couldn't reach the freaking thing. Three phone books? I was getting dizzy and my tower of books was shaking but I was closer. Chirp, right in my face as if to taunt my effort. Why wasn't I taller? And then an "ah ha" moment struck me. I ran upstairs and put on my cute Kate Spade raspberry red 3 inch suede high heels. I knew I'd wear them someday! Fortunately no one saw me in my climbing attire: striped boxer shorts, ratty white v-neck t-shirt and heels. Look away or turn to stone! With trepidation yet determination I scaled the phone books. I had no climbing ropes mind you, or anything stable to hold onto. There I was solo, in peril, teetering on top of my man made Mt. Everest. I barely got my hand around the chirping monster and yanked it off the ceiling. Victory was mine and I did it without supplemental oxygen! Or Sherpas.
I put the detector on the counter and started to trundle back to my warm cozy bed. "Chirp....chiiirp, CHIRP!" I was going insane. How could this be happening? There it sat on the counter with no battery yet still chirping at me. I picked it up and held it in my hand, tears streaming down my face. "Chirp, chirp." Was I in Edgar Allen Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart?" I was tired and broken. My only remaining solution was to get it out of the house. I dragged myself out to my car, threw it on the front seat and slammed the door. Silence.
As I trudged back upstairs feeling victorious and like a later day Sir Edmond Hillary I realized I had fulfilled my dream of climbing Mt. Everest. Remarkably I did it in a pair of raspberry red Kate Spade high heels.
"Chirp, chiiiiirrrrp, CHIRRRRRPP !" Holy crap, what was going on? I bolted up in bed and wildly looked around the room for a bird that must be loose. I checked the clock, it was 3:02 a.m. My first instinct was to burst into tears and my second was the same thing but that wouldn't stop the incessant chirping. Did I need a net or a gun? Having neither I summoned my trusty yellow lab to go hunting with me, after all he's a bird dog and we had work to do. I wondered if boxer shorts and a t-shirt were proper attire. Down the stairs we traipsed trying to find the source of the shrill hideous noise. I'm cursing, the dog's half asleep and not on the scent. "Elliot, where's the bird, get him boy, go hunt."
He laid down and fell asleep in the living room while I stood there trying to track the chirp. It was directly over my head , but it wasn't flying, it was a round white object - the smoke detector. Crap. The battery must have been low, but I was much lower, approx. 10 feet. I stared up at it with venom in my eyes. I had to stop it or be driven stark raving mad. Chirp, chirp, chirp! "Shut up", I screamed for no reason other than it made me feel proactive. There was no ladder so I had to make do with a chair. I scaled the chair in my bare feet and reached up.... I was 2'8" away from peace and quiet. Now what? I needed more elevation fast. A fat phone book seemed like a solution. I set the book on the chair and up I went. Damn, I wasn't even close. Two phone books had to do the trick. Nope, I still couldn't reach the freaking thing. Three phone books? I was getting dizzy and my tower of books was shaking but I was closer. Chirp, right in my face as if to taunt my effort. Why wasn't I taller? And then an "ah ha" moment struck me. I ran upstairs and put on my cute Kate Spade raspberry red 3 inch suede high heels. I knew I'd wear them someday! Fortunately no one saw me in my climbing attire: striped boxer shorts, ratty white v-neck t-shirt and heels. Look away or turn to stone! With trepidation yet determination I scaled the phone books. I had no climbing ropes mind you, or anything stable to hold onto. There I was solo, in peril, teetering on top of my man made Mt. Everest. I barely got my hand around the chirping monster and yanked it off the ceiling. Victory was mine and I did it without supplemental oxygen! Or Sherpas.
I put the detector on the counter and started to trundle back to my warm cozy bed. "Chirp....chiiirp, CHIRP!" I was going insane. How could this be happening? There it sat on the counter with no battery yet still chirping at me. I picked it up and held it in my hand, tears streaming down my face. "Chirp, chirp." Was I in Edgar Allen Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart?" I was tired and broken. My only remaining solution was to get it out of the house. I dragged myself out to my car, threw it on the front seat and slammed the door. Silence.
As I trudged back upstairs feeling victorious and like a later day Sir Edmond Hillary I realized I had fulfilled my dream of climbing Mt. Everest. Remarkably I did it in a pair of raspberry red Kate Spade high heels.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Television hell or I have no life.
I have reached a TV watching nadir. It finally happened, I acheived watching the lowest form of programming to date. Ironically it feels like a "personal best." This has nothing to do with my life long addiction to "All My Children," which btw is highbrow by comparison. And as a quick aside, I desperately need to know the name of Susan Lucci's plastic surgeon. Surprisingly my TV nadir isn't "The Housewives of Orange County" either. I was lulled into thinking those wacked out women were the epitome of broadcasting hell but they're not. I watched five consecutive episodes last week because apparently I have no life. I hung on through Lynn's face lift and her daughter's nose job and reeled with nausea. Do not watch the Housewives after you've eaten . I sat wide-eyed as they pranced around Orange County nearly naked in their colorful "tribal" clothes. I wondered why they weren't on the "travel channel" or featured in "National Geographic?"
Yet alas, the Housewives have been surpassed in shallowness by "The Millionaire Matchmaker." I have to ask, why, why, why this is a program? More importantly,why was I watching? I sat through four episodes which amounted to witnessing 16 dates. I concluded that the men were in search of giant breasts and the women a VISA card with no limit. Patti, who runs this millionaire match making service is a dominatrix type who tries to keep the wild men breast hunters from behaving like reptiles and the women from having sex with them on the first date. Patti gets crazed and verbally lacerates the kids when they don't follow dating protocol. I think she whips them off screen. I looked longingly at the New York Times Book Review which sat only inches away from me, yet kept watching. Finally I couldn't take it anymore, Patti made me realize I don't have the giant breasts it takes to get a millionaire, although I am good at following directions which would make her happy.
I put the clicker down, picked up the book review and felt oddly proud of achieving a TV low.
Yet alas, the Housewives have been surpassed in shallowness by "The Millionaire Matchmaker." I have to ask, why, why, why this is a program? More importantly,why was I watching? I sat through four episodes which amounted to witnessing 16 dates. I concluded that the men were in search of giant breasts and the women a VISA card with no limit. Patti, who runs this millionaire match making service is a dominatrix type who tries to keep the wild men breast hunters from behaving like reptiles and the women from having sex with them on the first date. Patti gets crazed and verbally lacerates the kids when they don't follow dating protocol. I think she whips them off screen. I looked longingly at the New York Times Book Review which sat only inches away from me, yet kept watching. Finally I couldn't take it anymore, Patti made me realize I don't have the giant breasts it takes to get a millionaire, although I am good at following directions which would make her happy.
I put the clicker down, picked up the book review and felt oddly proud of achieving a TV low.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
High School - Heaven or Hell?
High school was hell. Every morning was pressure packed with the emotionally draining dilemma of what I was going to wear. I'd rip blouses, skirts, and sweaters out of my closet desperately trying to remember when I wore them last. At New Trier we had the unwritten "one week" rule - no repeat outfits for one week. Talk about anxiety. I wasn't great at mixing and matching so by Thursday I was a nervous wreck and declared I was sick and had to stay home. "Get dressed," my mother would shout back. "But I have nothing to wear" I would cry. She was heartless and made me go to school in a repeat outfit. Fortunately my girlfriends and I traded off clothes at our lockers to keep pace. I still have no idea who has my greenish blue Villager cable knit button down sweater and want really want it back.
Yes, I probably have better things to do than ruminate about A-line skirts and cable knit sweaters but I just had three of my girlfriends from high school visit and it was like we were back in 1966. Is an afternoon of giggling and shrieking at a chic Palm Springs restaurant appropriate for grown women? We didn't care and didn't apologize to the other diners who glared at us. First and foremost we were convinced we all looked exactly the same. Exactly. Barbara for reasons as yet undetermined had kept her assignment notebook from sophomore year and we recreated each and every day. We were very shallow. Birthdays, half birthdays, parties, driving around aimlessly and boys filled every waking hour. We all went to college but I have no idea how given our busy schedules. I am however, convinced Barbara was invited to more sweet sixteen parties than I, which is disturbing. I am still shallow. I was also surprised at how many boys we mixed and matched like Villager outfits. They were a huge part of our thought process or our only thought. Some relationships lasted three days, others two weeks and why Bill Freilich dropped me is still a mystery. It set me back most of freshman year. Thankfully Dave Stepelton asked me out behind his cheerleader girlfriend's back and I recovered. Shallow but happy again.
Our lunch lasted 5 hours yet felt way too short. There's no end to re-living the times we shared. I liked being in 1966 again. I have to confess however I don't look exactly the same...my hair's shorter. I may have outgrown all my cute Villager outfits but I haven't outgrown my high school girlfriends.
Yes, I probably have better things to do than ruminate about A-line skirts and cable knit sweaters but I just had three of my girlfriends from high school visit and it was like we were back in 1966. Is an afternoon of giggling and shrieking at a chic Palm Springs restaurant appropriate for grown women? We didn't care and didn't apologize to the other diners who glared at us. First and foremost we were convinced we all looked exactly the same. Exactly. Barbara for reasons as yet undetermined had kept her assignment notebook from sophomore year and we recreated each and every day. We were very shallow. Birthdays, half birthdays, parties, driving around aimlessly and boys filled every waking hour. We all went to college but I have no idea how given our busy schedules. I am however, convinced Barbara was invited to more sweet sixteen parties than I, which is disturbing. I am still shallow. I was also surprised at how many boys we mixed and matched like Villager outfits. They were a huge part of our thought process or our only thought. Some relationships lasted three days, others two weeks and why Bill Freilich dropped me is still a mystery. It set me back most of freshman year. Thankfully Dave Stepelton asked me out behind his cheerleader girlfriend's back and I recovered. Shallow but happy again.
Our lunch lasted 5 hours yet felt way too short. There's no end to re-living the times we shared. I liked being in 1966 again. I have to confess however I don't look exactly the same...my hair's shorter. I may have outgrown all my cute Villager outfits but I haven't outgrown my high school girlfriends.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I Want a "Walk of Fame" Square
I want a square on the "Walk of Fame" in Palm Springs . I wonder whether this takes cash or actual celebrity. I happened to step on Phylis Diller yesterday and under her name it read "comedian" which got me thinking. I can't decide what they would write after my name. A blank square would disappoint my mother because she thought I had potential. Hang on a sec, maybe it could be a list of what I "tried to be" - that sounds ambitious, hopeful, and a reason to keep reading.
Gail Maria Forrest
"Tried to be" :
Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz" in 6th grade - instead played a winged monkey
Peggy Fleming - I couldn't do a double axel and fell a lot
Dale Evans - I didn't have a horse, buckboard or singing cowboy
Annette - I was too flat chested and my Mickey Mouse ears shrunk in the dryer
Liz Taylor - I need five more husbands to catch up
Imelda Marcos - I'm at least 300 or 400 pairs of shoes behind
The Flying Nun - I forgot I was Jewish and hate to fly
Von Trapp Family Singer - I look bad in lederhosen and can't pronounce "Edelweiss" with an Austrian accent
Well well well my "Walk of Fame" square is pretty full after all. A lot better reading than Phylis Diller's. Got a square to share?
Gail Maria Forrest
"Tried to be" :
Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz" in 6th grade - instead played a winged monkey
Peggy Fleming - I couldn't do a double axel and fell a lot
Dale Evans - I didn't have a horse, buckboard or singing cowboy
Annette - I was too flat chested and my Mickey Mouse ears shrunk in the dryer
Liz Taylor - I need five more husbands to catch up
Imelda Marcos - I'm at least 300 or 400 pairs of shoes behind
The Flying Nun - I forgot I was Jewish and hate to fly
Von Trapp Family Singer - I look bad in lederhosen and can't pronounce "Edelweiss" with an Austrian accent
Well well well my "Walk of Fame" square is pretty full after all. A lot better reading than Phylis Diller's. Got a square to share?
Monday, January 4, 2010
I do not want an iPhone but still think Steven Jobs is attractive
2010 will not be the year I buy an iPhone. I know, I know, it's the latest, best and dandiest gadget on the market. I realize I'm way behind the technological curve. I never had a Palm Pilot and still schlep around a Filofax which btw you can no longer get calendar refils for so I'm stuck in 2005. I was the last person on record to buy a computer and five years and four months after purchasing it I learned to "cut and paste." This is an insight into my soul and ability to learn new tricks. I love to cut and paste but feel I've reached a technological zenith. I can't fathom operating the new little phone without expensive therapy.
I've noticed people with iPhones look down at them a lot and I like to look up. I am fearful of the sky falling. It also really scares the bejesus out of me when I'm driving with someone who is searching for a new fun restaurant on their iPhone and steering with their knees. "Holy crap, put the phone down, I'm not hungry." What is so addicting about these tiny machines? Is access to information 24/7 really necessary? I hate information after 9:30 a.m. To say nothing of the fact that it must be very bad for your thumbs to constantly scroll scroll scroll - not good for someone like me with a large medical deductible.
Truthfully I don't have a GPS or iPod either. I have a little radio with push button channels that I take with me running. I get two stations with bad music. I drive around hopelessly lost and no one will open their car window to help me with directions. It's hard to steer and weep. In 2010 I might get a compass.
I've noticed people with iPhones look down at them a lot and I like to look up. I am fearful of the sky falling. It also really scares the bejesus out of me when I'm driving with someone who is searching for a new fun restaurant on their iPhone and steering with their knees. "Holy crap, put the phone down, I'm not hungry." What is so addicting about these tiny machines? Is access to information 24/7 really necessary? I hate information after 9:30 a.m. To say nothing of the fact that it must be very bad for your thumbs to constantly scroll scroll scroll - not good for someone like me with a large medical deductible.
Truthfully I don't have a GPS or iPod either. I have a little radio with push button channels that I take with me running. I get two stations with bad music. I drive around hopelessly lost and no one will open their car window to help me with directions. It's hard to steer and weep. In 2010 I might get a compass.
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